The uncaused sadness comes when the warrior has ruled over everything. When he has said goodbye to the illusion where humans sleep. Goodbye to these millions of people bewitched by habit, lulled by nonsense, turned into zombies. Farewell virtual world, farewell junk life, matter is nothing, the almighty spirit hovers on inaccessible heights where the warrior will now live. His absolute solitude is his last drag.
What we have called matter is energy, whose vibration has been so lowered as to be perceptible to the senses. There is no matter.
This article is not in line with the nagualism, so it does not appear in the chapter Castaneda but in a more personal chapter, Wizard Diary. (see contents)
In France, the word sorcier has a negative connotation that I want to modulate. I am no spell-thrower, I removes spells. My true title is enchanting. I belong to the Wolf Clan, Clan du Loup as the great Merlin. The daughters of the Loup are called fairies or enchanteresses. Used shamelessly in the past, these old titles are outdated. Now they are called sorcerer, witch.
Very unpleasant. The Spanish has the term brujo, less negative. English has wizard, more positive than sorcerer. But the country of Descartes believes only in lying science. Yesterday healers, cures, witches, enchantresses and everything that comes close were burn altogether were burned at the stake. If there is no more stake, I still lost two houses in the flames. I got out at the right time.
I invite you to an inner journey. Begun in childhood, this long-term journey is not finished seventy years later. If for some life is a merry-go-round, mine was a whirlwind. No surprise. I was born under a wandering star and I keep refusing to grow up until now. If the inner child hasn’t wrinkled, my old face can’t show the same. Dying is nothing, it’s getting old that kills us. The little boy jumps as soon as he passes a mirror.
Only then the kid is aware of a painful evidence. The internal time has blocked its needle on age 10. But the external time worked on my body. A pity. This is one of the reasons that makes me prefer the astral to the ordinary, too ordinary world. I can’t stand the virtual illusion of a world gangrened by matter and soiled by money. Let me enjoy the luminous fairy-tale from beyond. Where the children play, I have built a dwelling that fire does not reach.
Except for the inner fire that consumes and consumes me, in which I dance and debate, with which I dream and laugh to bursting, which never goes out but does not burn. He still distills an emotion that stings the eyes. The warrior’s uncaused sadness throws me a black cockroach that fades on a farce. My mood is changing in good Gemini who cannot get old.
Only the fireborn understand blue.
Only the one who has burned all the useless can understand where his great sadness comes from, this blues that points its nose at the bottom of his heart without shouting, this cockroach that only laughs dissipates.
To be honest, the warrior’s sadness is not without cause. When we have cut off our connections with the world, where we are bored, when we have been around and come back tired of it, when we understand that here on earth nothing changes, that fashions go by and do the same dishes, that tyrants succeed tyrants, That depth only applies to nonsense, we flew without regret towards a better world.
The green paradise of childish love dear to Baudelaire. Eternal refuge of the homeless. By solitude, I took my flight beyond the highest peaks. I approached the oceans from above, the infinity without island and without shore. Who is waiting for me? Nobody. Who is there to receive me? No soul. Whom do I meet? What saint should I be? e take refuge? In which bed should I bury myself? Under which pillow to hide the head? Against which lukewarm body to snuggle and dream?
Facing the infinite, facing the unknown, lost on the borders of the unknowable, one must constantly stoke his inner fire not to freeze in place. I have long relied on two oaks, two faithful friends of childhood, adolescence, middle age and… And that’s it. They both left me on the threshold of old age, they will not have experienced the decline that awaits me and so much better.
Dying is nothing. What kills is getting old.
I am happy for them.
(2019)
On the trails of high solitude
On the paths alongside the infinite
On the slopes of great uncertainty
Don’t you know that the storm is over?
You have not lacked hunger or food
You won or lost nothing at all
You chose neither faith nor inconstancy
On your journey far from everywhere
Handsome knight of tales and legends
Valiant fighter faithful companion
From the bottom of the sea to the peaks of the Andes
While we both lose we win
On the future swear to remain worthy
Of donations gotten and lessons given
Future time is read between the lines
We will be prophets and damned
Who keeps us from breaking the shackles
To overthrow the throne of tyrants?
Who keeps us from behaving bravely
Caressing a sexy face?
We were naked companions in misery
We had nothing but dawn at our knees
Warriors from the ends of the earth
We have it all : Heaven is with us
With them, we were the infernal trio. Our pranks delighted the merry band of Rochefort on Mayenne. The Lakota Sioux’s fashionable sweat lodges, songs of power, healings, hours of patience reproducing the magical arcana of ancient Tarots, meals at thirty or forty crazy in the great hall of the mill perched on the river, and magical trips! Brocéliande, the Rock to the Fairies of Essé, Notre Dame de Chartres, Vézelay, Saint Pierre de Montmartre, Avebury, Carnac and many others, so many magnificent places to be able to vibrate, move and hover.
We were three thieves in fair, three Bateleurs on the way to the Star. Death took my beautiful and my funny, each turn. And here I am alone at the top of the tower, an orphan of love, a heart to be taken, afraid to hang high and short, lonely as ever, happy as no one, abandoned by all including his mother, may she rest in joy, my dear Loulou, her jokes and her formulas, my favorite witch.
To age alone, you age for two. Too many shortages, missing, forgotten, lost lost in this world or others, what to do? What to do? “If I’d know, I would not came. If I’d know it was so, I wouldn’t came”, rumbled Ti Gibusin the movie La guerre des boutons into a spot of my expandable memory.
The uncaused sadness is not nostalgia, nor fear of dying, nor self-pity, nor adolescence blues, nor child terror, all at the same time. The impeccable warrior is no longer a toy of emotions. But they still exist, more vivid than ever.
Everything is powerful in the heart of the seer. Strength is within you, Jedi warrior. Strength of character, quiet strength, silent force, living force. Youth will have to happen. Growing up is nothing, getting old kills me.
People die of old age although the age of our DNA in our cells does not exist. Where does old age come from if it is not programmed by DNA? Cells in our bodies are constantly renewing themselves, even in the elderly. They are not more fragile with age. So why grow old? There are many errors in cell reproduction, but there is always a biological-emotional reason for our death. You grow old because you feel old.
It is not so easy for a person to die, that the heart and lungs stop working. You really have to get tired of living to die. People do not die of old age or disease, they die of their emotional conflicts that age and kill them.
We either make ourselves miserable, or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.
For our DNA, there is no age, it is the limits we create over the years that kill our body. We die by imitation, because we made that program.
Aging comes from negative thoughts and very low vibratory rate that prevails in kali yuga. To get through? Wake up, become eternal, that’s the best.
If we do not have the limiting belief that it is normal to age, then we do not age, or almost not…
He slowly dies who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not know how to laugh at himself.
Nagual warriors live in a clan. Castaneda tried twice to make one, Flornoy too, four failures. When it came to me, I didn’t try. I knew I was a three-pronged nagual, like Carlito, like Jef Big Salt. These naguals are not content with a clan. They open the door wide to people. Free entry. Passing masters, we offer a passage to the unspeakable. The unsuspecting eats at our table. Intruders have come and left.
This path is uphill, sandy, difficult. Does not follow who wants it. It takes great ardor. Resolution. Perseverance. Courage beyond the centuries and mountains. If you believe in castles in Spain, forget me. I am not there.
Even the Wolf Clan, who was so important to Flornoy, I don’t want it. I played with it, I took the skin of the Wolf, I dressed up. I was sober. This world is too worn out, the Wolves are too cunning, the disillusioned people have nothing to abuse me. And laughter has been thrown.
The layers of the underworld are the primary cause of this unfathomable and tenacious sadness. We sleep in it, dream about it, live in it at night. Warriors of the infinite, we travel without luggage, without return, armed with the only courage necessary to the threshold of the voracious unknown. The coming death is not the cause of this vice that crushes my heart. What awaits me on the other side, I have been there often. It’s the void and the wind. Total oblivion from before. This world is false, I’m sure of it now, and yet I loved it so much.
I still have so much attachment, it still has such an attraction for me that I have already left it.
Demons aggressively assail the elect who ascend to the Kingdom. I learned this once in catechism. My recent status has nothing to do with it, but the analogy is true. The higher you go, the harder you get.
I climb to the light, my glow is brighter, my flavor attracts astral flies and vampires follow them. Morfales come to the table. I get eaten alive and I’m surprised to freak out! I am devoured from the inside by agile leprosy, terrifying filth in power and vivacity.
There is always stronger than myself. I should have remembered. Lack of humility, I jubileed too strong. And the crazy crank struck me back. Joy of the day. I have lost the path of the sweet land of love.
Gift does not dispense with effort, talent does not dispense with work, genius does not dispense with humility.
Before the station, one gets out of the train-train. Who too embraces badly. I am contrite, constrained, deconstructed.
Dialogue from beyond the grave
I’m alone on my way
It’s late and I bet
if I lay down the railway
This train will help me to forget.
We don’t forget a bit
Even a single thing
We don’t forget nothing
You just get used to it.
Forgetting? What’s the role
When you’re loosing notion
In the edgeless ocean
Drawn by a big black hole?
(source)Xavier Séguin 1964 & 2024 + Jacques Brel 1961
I was 12 years old in my parents’ garden when I came out of my body. All of a sudden, I saw everything, I knew everything. It did not move me too much. Since it happened to me, since I was fine, why worry? For a moment, eternity has opened. I floated fifteen meters above the ground while my body continued to hoe weeds. His sight made me uncomfortable. I looked elsewhere.
I saw, I heard, I smelled, I vibrated, I felt as if I had my body around me. But he was not there. I understood what I already knew: I am not my body. Digging that fact was my second great chance. I live in it, I share its sufferings and its pleasures, but I am not this body. The proof: I was outside, but I’m not dead.
Then I went back to my body. I don’t know how, it just happened. And I’m still alive. This is my third big chance. Why? Why me? A fairy once told me that my aura was crystal. This would mean that I was awake from birth. Like indigo and rainbow auras. I would be a return. A Tibetan tulkou. I believe it a little, and I don’t believe it at all.
The collection of great opportunities in my life has never stopped since then.
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